for the love of arachidae
by MegaBadBunny
Summary: Connor stops mid-sentence, head canted to the side, and Hank just knows he's analyzing him through those shrew-narrowed eyes. He can practically see the numbers flashing by, algorithms working overtime to construct a scenario in which Connor emerges the victor here. Those algorithms, Hank thinks, are gonna be searching a long fucking time. (Warning: here there be spiders & memes.)


Everyone has a line; Hank draws his at spiders in the house.

"Absolutely not," he says flatly, sparing one (single, brief) glance from his laptop for Connor's cupped hands, and whatever hideous too-many-legged-_thing_ might be squirming around inside them.

"Spiders are an essential component of their native ecosystems," Connor insists. "Removing them can have major negative ecological implications."

"I'll show you _major negative ecological implications_," Hank mutters under his breath.

"What was that, Lieutenant?"

Hank shoots him a sarcastic grin, knowing perfectly well that Connor heard him the first time. "I said, they're not native to the ecosystem of this house."

"That isn't entirely accurate; _Platycryptus undatus_ is native to this entire region, as well as a large portion of the North American Midwest, and, like all jumping spiders, it is extremely effective—"

"Oh, well, you didn't say it _jumps_," Hank replies pleasantly. "In that case, feel free to kill it with fire."

"—at maintaining the local population of flies, aphids, moths, and other designated 'pests' that may otherwise harm the local flora," Connor continues as if Hank had never spoken. "You don't want to endanger all of the local flora, do you?"

"Pretty sure the only 'local flora' in this house is the mildew growing under the bathroom sink."

"Mildew isn't a plant, it's a minute fungal hyphae, and I took care of that last week—"

"Aww, shucks, did you?" asks Hank, clicking his tongue in mock-disapproval. "What, no rights for fungus? Fuck fungal rights?"

Connor stops mid-sentence, head canted to the side, and Hank just knows he's analyzing him through those shrew-narrowed eyes. He can practically see the numbers flashing by, algorithms working overtime to construct a scenario in which Connor emerges the victor here. Those algorithms, Hank thinks, are gonna be searching a long fucking time. He offers up a beatific (if a bit sarcastic) grin in response to Connor's gaze.

"Hank," says Connor.

"Connor," says Hank.

"This spider cannot harm you. It is much smaller than you, it is much weaker than you, and it generally only bites humans if it is handled too roughly."

"Bold of you to presume I would ever handle that fuckin' thing."

"In short, your fear of this creature is irrational," Connor explains, patiently. "It contributes far more good than it does harm. And look…"

"Don't you dare—" Hank tries to say, but it's too late, because Connor has split his hands apart now, and lo and behold, there it is, staring up from Connor's palm with too many eyes and way too many fucking legs: a furry brown spider. "What the fuck," Hank groans, watching in mounting horror as the thing edges around Connor's hand, exploring his palm here, inspecting the gap between fingers there, before venturing out onto his thumb, only to jump—fucking _jump_—to the nearest finger. Or at least Hank assumes that's where it's jumping, because the second he sees that thing hit the air, he's slamming his laptop shut and scrambling over the arm of his chair in a desperate bid to escape. "The _fuck_!" he shouts, half-sprung from his recliner.

"Look, it's friendly," Connor says, looking up at Hank with a bright-eyed smile.

"It's creepy, is what it is!" Hank shouts.

Connor frowns. "I understand that many humans experience revulsion at the sight of spiders, but this impulse is entirely reactionary, not to mention based on totally arbitrary criteria. This creature is not causing you any harm."

"I don't give a shit—get that thing out of here. Smash it, flush it, stomp it, get it the fuck out right now!"

Gaze falling back to the spider, Connor hesitates, LED spinning yellow. "But it's not doing anything wrong," he insists, voice quiet. "It's only guilty of being a spider. It can't help how you perceive it. It can't help what it is, Lieutenant."

Hank opens his mouth to let forth another stream of invectives, but stops upon noticing the look on Connor's face, the careful blankness there. It occurs to him, suddenly, that this stopped being about the spider a while ago. Maybe it never was about the spider.

Aw, fuck. He should tread delicately here.

"You know you're not the spider, right?" he blurts out.

Connor blinks in confusion, and Hank silently curses himself. Delicacy, as it turns out, is not one of his stronger attributes. Also he is far too sober for this. "I mean, you know this isn't about you. Right?" he tries again.

"I know," replies Connor, softly.

"Do you, though?"

Connor averts his gaze. "Rationally I know that, yes."

"I'm not gonna kick you out because you do weird robot shit sometimes, I'm not gonna suddenly stop being your friend," Hank tells him. "I know I said some stuff way back when, but I was being an asshole. That's my problem, not yours. All right?"

Slowly, Connor nods. "All right."

"This is your home, too. For however long you want. You got that?"

A small smile spreads across Connor's face. "Got it."

"Good," says Hank, satisfied. Then, pointing, "It is _not_ the spider's home."

"But, Lieutenant—"

"Nope!" Hank interrupts. "I don't care if it's the most useful goddamn critter on the planet. You don't have to smush it, but you do have to get it out of the house. I'm not running a bed-and-breakfast for bugs."

"Spiders aren't insects. They're arachnids."

"Gee, thanks, Wikipedia." Hank leans forward meaningfully. "Yeet the arachnid."

Grinning, Connor cups the spider in both hands again, sauntering toward the door. "Yes, Lieutenant."

* * *

Hank finds another spider the next morning, dozing by his bedroom window. Naturally his immediate impulse is to squish the damn thing (_what the fuck do spiders need so many legs for, anyway?_), but halfway through rolling out of bed to grab a stray shoe, he freezes. The conversation from the day prior plays fresh in his head—_it is much smaller than you_, _it is much weaker than you_, _it can't help what it is_, _it's not doing anything wrong_.

He grumbles. Goddamn robo-kid and his goddamn empathy are goddamn contagious. Shit.

Grabbing his cup from the bedside table, Hank drains it in one go; then, despite the revulsion shuddering up his spine, he grabs a magazine and pads over to the window, glaring at the spider all the while, like it wronged him. Which, it did, simply by virtue of daring to be a fucking spider in his fucking house, but that's beside the point.

"You are one lucky fucker," Hank says, trapping the spider with the cup. He cinches the magazine beneath and makes a beeline for the front door, carrying the rig stretched out in front of him as far as his arms will allow. He does not stop in the hall to scratch Sumo's head, he does not stop in the living room to wish Connor a good morning, he does not pass Go, he does not collect $200; he does dump the spider on the front porch, slam the door behind him, and immediately dump the glass and the magazine both in the garbage.

"Thank you, Lieutenant," Connor pipes up.

"I liked you better when you were a robot," Hank grumbles in reply.

Connor doesn't say anything, but Hank swears he can hear his stupid smug little grin.

Goddammit.


End file.
